


say, that would be enough

by ourseparatedcities



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 12:45:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3209696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourseparatedcities/pseuds/ourseparatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of him thinks it’s just because the scent of cornmeal, the singer’s sorrows and the sunlight dancing across the counter top center him. Most of him will always believe. </p><p>(in which James accidentally oversleeps, doesn't have time to perform his lucky ritual and things go wrong. things go right, as well.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	say, that would be enough

James has a ritual for big days.

It’s simple, and it makes him feel a little silly sometimes. But he did it hours before he signed for Real Madrid and prior to the goal that got him nominated, so there’s no way he’s missing it this time. 

It starts as the sun drags blearily across the pre-dawn sky. Now the songs are crisp and clear from his iPod, but in the beginning, the songs would spring forth with a slightly tinny quality from the black boombox. With them came his grandmother’s hands, and then his mother’s hands, making arepas while Alci Acosta crooned in the background about heartbreak and loss.

When he’s older, enough to know he’d prefer the furious beat of the tambora and just a cup of avena to settle his stomach, he finally asks.

“Abuelita, why always this? Why always the same thing?

“Because traditions are beautiful,” she’d replied, hands flattening the balls of dough. “And beautiful things, they come in groups. So when you do this, you’re inviting more beautiful things into your life.” 

It’s the day he signs with Envigado. Part of him thinks it’s just because the scent of cornmeal, the singer’s sorrows and the sunlight dancing across the counter top center him. Most of him will always believe.

Only the night before the ceremony in Zurich, he tosses and turns miserably in bed until he finally passes out at 3 am. He has particularly vivid dreams, one of his tongue growing thicker and longer until it spills out of his mouth, tripping him on his way to the stage. He’s in the middle of another one involving Cristiano sitting in the middle of an empty auditorium, face somber and eyes tortured, when he’s jarred out of it by Dani shaking him awake, vaguely aware of her throwing a hoodie at him. He’s about to protest when he blinks at the clock on the bedside table and frantically springs out of bed, dressed in record time and nearly running a red light on the way to the training ground.

Instead of arepas warm in his stomach, he arrives with his nerves gnawing at him. His feet drag during practice, but he forces himself through the motions for the team’s sake. Fabio’s the first to notice. They’re on their third lap around the track when he sidles up to James, taps an elbow to his side.

“If you keep holding your breath, you’ll never even make it to Zurich. Unless that’s what you’re going for.”

James grunts, feels that burning at the back of his throat before he slows. They fall into a companionable jog.

“You’ll be fine. You just have to practice your speech and you’ll do great.” He nods in agreement, even though his stomach is roiling and his shoulders are painfully tight when he rolls them.

Pepe catches up to them, whacks him playfully on the back.

“Ay, your face is too sour today, filho. And it’s been at least 10 minutes since you’ve hugged anyone. That’s a record for you, I think.”

James shoves him with a huff but finds himself laughing along with him. He breaks the record by tugging Fabio by the arm and drawing all three of them into a hug together. They pat his back lovingly and Pepe kisses both his cheeks. It makes him feel like a little kid, so he squeezes him again, just for that.

“Take care of yourself today. And him.”

“Yeah,” he mutters against Pepe’s shoulder, looking over them to where Cristiano’s jostling Isco while they run drills. “I will.”

Near the end of practice, when Cristiano ridiculously trips over a wet patch of grass and James rushes over even before the others can even laugh at him, Pepe trusts in his promise.

On the way home, James corners Marcelo and makes him repeat the plan for the evening in excruciating detail.

“I’ve been throwing surprise parties since before you were born, _filho_ ,” he retorts. When James’ face doesn’t change, he swings his forearm onto his shoulder and goes through it in precise detail. Neither of them brings up the possibility of their gathering becoming redundant.

 

*

 

His cheeks are still burning after he wins, the Puskás Award heavy but pleasantly cool against his palm. The speech goes off without a hitch. His stuttering is worse when he’s nervous, or scared, or his mind’s in chaos, so he keeps it purposely short. He practices in mirrors around the house, on the car ride to the event, on the airplane to Zurich.

(Cristiano claims that at this point, he could probably have done the speech for James himself. The Colombiano throws him a frosty look, but doesn’t pull his hand away when the Portuguese covers it with his own.)

His hands are still shaking when a pair of arms throw themselves around him, pulls his body forward until their torsos touch.

“Congratulations!” He can feel Cristiano grinning against his ear, can tell his eyes will be warm molasses when he pulls back. James chuckles, scratches the back of his neck.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, and it’s earnest, he’s proud, really. But the unsettled feeling won’t leave, nags at him like tiny pinpricks down his spine.

Cristiano’s hands cup his around the award.

“You deserve this.” James bites his lip, nods. Cristiano squeezes lightly. “Hey, come on, you’re supposed to be getting better about winning. You’re a madridista now, it’s what we do.”

He says it with a smug quirk of eyebrows, but he’s peering thoughtfully at James and he knows where to look for the signs. The downturned corners of his mouth and the little wrinkles on his forehead.

“ _Queridinho_ ,” he whispers, concern clear in his soft voice.

James forces his smile wider until his teeth show, shakes the award vigorously.

“Yay!” he cheers.

The heaviness only gets worse when he sees Thierry Henry head onto the stage. He has to sit on his hands to keep from clasping them against his chest, as he always does when his heartbeat is racing wildly and his chest aches with a familiar tightness. The air is painfully thick when Henry begins to announce that the winner is,

“...Cristiano Ronaldo.”

It’s not until Cristiano’s striding towards the podium that James finally lets out the breath he’s been holding the whole day, feels his hands finally still underneath his thighs. The applause rings in his ear and he claps along energetically, until the applause rings in his ears.

Later, when he gets backstage and finds Cristiano running a hand over his son’s hair while Junior curiously examines the golden ball, James feels his anxiety begin to dissipate. He grins and it’s wide, true.

He’s on the tips of his toes, wrapped unabashedly around him as he whispers, “I knew it’d be you.”

 

*

 

He’d wish for a moment just to take it all in, because it’s dizzyingly new for him, if it wouldn’t make him feel ungrateful.

Besides, it’s easy to get swept away in the whirlwind of celebration that follows. In Carlo turning into Carletto and, mid-way through a congratulatory handshake, pulling James into a hug. In Toni reaching up to fix his hair and dropping it mid-air, like, for the first time since he’s joined the team, it might actually be fine.

His favorite moment comes when one of the interviewers pulls Sergio aside, shows him something on a scrap of paper. James is too far away to see what it is, chatting idly with a boisterous Simeone whose first clap on the back nearly knocks him over. Cristiano’s conversing with Marta when the Spanish defender tackles him from behind, nearly topples them both in his enthusiasm. Sergio drags him around into a hug, and even from where he’s standing, James can see the matching expressions of joy on their faces, eyes closed and smiles bright.

On the plane ride home, when he finds out it was brought on by Sergio finding out he had been Captain Ronaldo’s first vote, he can’t stop from pressing his linked hands against his heart.

The trip is a boisterous and cheerful affair, which makes it even more noticeable when Sergio is quieter than usual. He poses for pictures, hugs everyone who so much as brushes past him, but when Irina has to be the one to turn on some music, James knows something’s up. When he stares at his phone five times in seven minutes, he has his suspicions.

They've only known one another for a few months, but the Spaniard loves so hugely, so easily that James doesn't feel self-conscious about slipping his arm through his, perching his chin on his shoulder.

“Hello, puppy,” Sergio greets, turns his arm so he can slide it around James’ back.

“How're you doing?” James asks.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that, hotshot?”

James bumps his shoulder with his chin.

“Really.”

“Really…good. I’m proud of him, and you.” He taps his cheek to James’ temple. “And it’s amazing to know Cris voted for me.”

“But.”

Sergio shrugs.

“It’s weird not having him here,” he explains, confirming James’ guess. “It’s like, all I have to do is look at him when he’s ecstatic and I can feel it myself. Like my happiness is multiplied by his, you know?”

James looks over at Cristiano, cupping his mother’s cheek in his hands and reverently kissing her forehead. Everything inside him turns molten. He does know.

“After a while, it’s like you forget how to do it in your own, like everything’s a little less without them.”

James knows exactly what it’s like to come to rely on something, and imagines it’s only worse when it’s someone.

He makes sure to send Iker a text on the way to the in-flight kitchen, sends Marcelo another too, just in case. He’s nearly got the orange juice opened when he feels an arm grab his waist, a mouth coming to rest underneath his ear.

“Still staying over tonight?”

James tilts his head slightly, questioningly. It’s already become a pattern for them and awards ceremonies, falling asleep in Cristiano’s bed with him draped over James’ back, legs tangled, driving to training together in the morning, hands linked over the console.

“I’ll buy you buñuelos on the way to practice.” It’s as close to saying please as he will likely get and James finds it difficult to play coy when he considers how rarely Cristiano asks for things. When he follows it up by nosing into the nape of his neck just to breathe him in, it’s nearly impossible.

James turns in his arms, splays his palms over the soft black cotton.

“Okay.”

Cristiano cups a hand loosely around the back of his neck and James’ eyes are closed when he tilts his head up, feels his breath warm and his mouth soft against his own. He brushes his lips gently along his but the Colombiano wants more, lets his part as he arches into his body. Cristiano’s hand grows firmer against him.  

“ _Amor_ ,” Cristiano whispers adoringly. James’ hands curl into the fabric, nearly on his tiptoes now to experimentally slide his tongue over Cristiano’s. When the Portuguese groans against his teeth, he considers it a victory. Cris’ other hand presses into the small of James’ back, crushes him against his chest.

There’s a sharp knock on metal and then a second’s pause, before the curtain swings aside, Irina’s head popping into view.

“Sorry, loverboys, but Mama Lo wants group pictures. And what Mama Lo wants, she gets.” James wonders how Irina still manages to look exceptionally gorgeous when she’s leering at them, but she pulls it off, with a wink nonetheless.

He very nearly whines in protest when Cristiano’s hand falls away from his neck and reaches to adjust his hair. The kiss against his temple is apologetic.

“Tonight,” he promises, strides off in the direction of his family.

Irina loops her arm through James’ as they follow after.

“Hard to share sometimes, isn’t it?”

“No,” he argues, swipes a tongue across his bottom lip. Irina’s skeptical little laugh chimes in his ear.

“You get the hang of it eventually.”

He pats her arm lightly in gratitude. She’s gorgeous in a way that should be intimidating, but it’s hard for James to see her as such when he’s watched her burn toast twice in a row with curlers in her hair.

When she elbows Sergio out of the way and maneuvers James into position beside Cristiano, he could almost kiss her. He settles for rubbing the inside of her elbow before she slips away.

“ _Patata_ on _tres_ , ready? _Uno_ , _dos, tres_.”

James’ heart does a lazy, low somersault inside his chest when Cristiano twines their fingers together on “ _tres_.” They’re both a second behind everyone else on yelling out, “ _Patata_!”

 

*

 

He finally gets a text back from Marcelo.

_“Iker says ur gettin the silent trtment for thinkin he wont b there.”_

7 seconds later

_“He says, ‘Im the fukin capt , u toddler!’ “_

3 seconds later.

_“i still love u tho”_

Cristiano drops into the seat beside James when he’s mid-reply.

“Who is it?”

“Celo.”

Cristiano smiles but it starts and stops at his mouth, and James nudges his shoulder.

“Let’s send him a selfie, yeah?”

It reaches the corners of his eyes when he throws his arm around James, leans his cheek against his hair to let him find the right angle. They say “Marcelo” instead of “ _patata_ ,” and their grins are sloppy. Cristiano lets his arm stay around him while he sends the picture, pretends to stare at the phone so he can touch his mouth to his temple.

Marcelo responds immediately, with a “CONGRATS CRACKS!” and at least a dozen emojis after.

James is putting his phone away when Cristianinho wanders by with the trophy, burrows into his father’s side before shyly considering James. The younger man lightly bops his nose, chuckles when he wrinkles it petulantly.

“Where’s Salo?” He demands, voice muffled against Cristiano’s shirt.

“She’s at home, with her abuela. She’s not a big kid like you yet.” When his tiny, normally solemn face relaxes into a pleased little smile, James feels his stomach swoop strangely.

“Does this mean she’s not big enough to come to the ball pit with us? You can come too.” James imagines he looks moony as he nods in agreement.

“I think she’d like that.”

He leaves the award with them with a little, “ ‘kay” and a huge grin.

“Another James Rodriguez fan,” Cristiano remarks, lightly taps his knee against his own.

“Like father, like son,” James quips teasingly.

“Si.”

The way Cristiano meets his eyes before he says it, like he wants James to know, makes a wave of heat lap welcomingly over the stretch of his skin.

They’re sitting close enough that James feels when Cristiano’s phone vibrates, turns back to him. He makes this amused sharp crack of a noise before holding it up to James.

Marcelo has one hand on the tablet, gently caressing his fingers over the image. Pepe’s entire face is tilted upward, hands clasped under his chin, looking as though he’s in the midst of a religious episode. In between them is an extremely close-up image of Cristiano on stage, mid-war cry, mouth parted goofily and eyes squinted too tight.

“ _Inspiration for the next statue in Portugal?_ ” the caption reads.

“What’s the word that Isco called them last time, trollops?” Cristiano asks, brow furrowed in thought.

“Trolls,” James replies, purses his lips to keep from laughing at him.

“Trolls.” He nods sagely, then touches the top of the shiny sphere. “I can’t wait to show this off to them tomorrow.”

He’s wearing the same fond look he had when Mama Lo adjusted his bowtie before the ceremony, the one he reserves for family. James finds himself keenly anticipating the look on his face when he sees everyone there tonight.

Later in the evening, he’ll wonder if that was the moment his luck began to run out.

They exchange their farewells in the parking lot, Irina whispering, “It’s easier to share, when I see how happy you make him,” and kissing both his cheeks before heading off for a photo shoot. Thankfully, Cristiano doesn’t hear but he does quirk an eyebrow when James’ eyes go wide at Sergio’s saucy wink, accompanied by the Spaniard mouthing, “See you soon.”

“Night, Sergio!” he exclaims, dragging Cristiano away into the car before Sergio could say or do anything else.

Cristiano has this habit of crowding him, not in an overbearing way, but just of leaving no space between them when they’re alone. James isn’t even sure that it’s a conscious decision anymore, but as soon as they’re inside, Cristiano’s chest molds into his side. His fingers lazily trail along the back of his neck and he mouths lightly at the sensitive curve of his ear, but it still sends a shiver flickering up James’ spine. He wants to turn and rest his cheek against Cristiano’s shoulder, nip at his jaw and curl into him, only he can’t relax when Marcelo still hasn’t texted to say everyone’s arrived.

The older man seems to notice, detaches himself very carefully.

“Is this...Are you still up for staying the night?” Cristiano clarifies.

James’ head turns sharply at the hesitation in his voice, nods vigorously at him. He kisses at the corner of his mouth to confirm.

“Of course I do.”

His phone finally buzzes in his pocket.

“Sorry.” He smiles sheepishly, scrolling for the text when Isco’s message in the WhatsApp group flashes.

“ _cant wait 2 party guis!!_ ”

[ _“DELETE THIS U IDIOT! CRIS CAN SEE”_ -Dani

 _“party foul b4 teh party”_ -Jesé.

 _“HOW DO DELETE shit jame s is gunna kill me.”_ -Isco]

Even before he’s finished reading it, James can hear Cristiano’s phone vibrating in his pocket. He panics, nearly climbs onto Cristiano’s lap in order to fuse their mouths together, cupping the back of his head. Cristiano makes a little noise of surprise that turns into a welcoming groan as his hands clutch at James’ hips, hauling him against his body. It’s meant to be just a distraction but his arms wind around his neck and when Cristiano breaks away to suck at his throat, James whimpers needily.

“ _Meu bem_ ,” Cristiano bites out again his skin.

From the front seat, a polite cough sounds out. James cheek is still plastered against Cristiano’s hair when their heads swivel in sync to face the front.

“We’ve arrived.”

They blink owlishly at the darkened windows of Cristiano’s house to discover he’s right.

When Cristiano has to press a hand to the front of his jeans before he can get out, James pretends not to stare. His cheeks turn beautifully pink.

The driver’s grabbing their suitcase when Cristiano suddenly grabs at James’ wrist, protectively thrusts him behind his body.

“Wha...what?” James sputters, peeking out from behind his shoulder.

“I thought I saw something, on the side of the house,” Cristiano explains, his voice tense, shoulders rolled and spine straightened to take advantage of every inch of his height. James peeks over his shoulder and hopes he bites his lip quickly enough to stifle the gasp. There is no doubt in his mind that the wisps of hair that disappeared behind the house belong to Marcelo.

“Uh um...I think,” he stammers, tries to come up with something quickly. “I’m sure it’s just a bird or something.”

Cristiano glances doubtfully at him over his shoulder.

“You know, like a nightingale or an...owl. A nocturnal one.”

He blinks.

“We can call security and check with them once we’re inside, if you don’t believe me.” James huffs and stomps off toward the front door, feels the familiar discomfort that comes with even the mildest of lies. The driver remains unfazed by them as he deposits their bags onto the doorstep.

“No, no, of course I believe you,” Cristiano hastily clarifies and quickly follows after, falling into step beside him. James can’t check with him so close, but he sends up a prayer that the faint rattling in his pocket is the “ _all set_ ” text.

Cristiano kisses the curve of his shoulder in unspoken apology while James is rummaging around in his own pocket for his key to the older man’s house.

“I promise I believe you,” he murmurs in that sonorously sexy voice of his and James fumbles trying to get the key into the lock. Cristiano chuckles delightedly behind him, spreads his fingers wide and low on James’ stomach, beckons him closer until he’s adding against his earlobe,

“But I could think of a way or two to convince you.”

James’ cheeks are blush-splattered and he’s nearly trembling when he throws open the front door.

“We’re here!” he announces, nearly shouting in his attempt to project, wriggling inside, braced for the team’s shouting and…

nothing. James looks around wildly, expectantly. The older man halts midway down the hall, brows knitted together in amused confusion as James tries to discreetly lean to check behind the couch.

“What’re you doing?” James springs straight, chuckles nervously before following Cristiano into the kitchen.

“Nothing,” he chirps, reaches to flick on the overhead lights in the kitchen.

“SURPRISE!” The room erupts in a single shout, the sound booming against James’ chest.

“ _Caralho_!” Cristiano spits out, catching himself mid-stumble with a hand on a wall before breaking into laughter.

There’s at least two dozen multi-colored balloons and a half-hearted attempt at draping white streamers across the ceiling, covering only part of the room. There’s a Batman birthday banner that James is pretty sure is from Junior’s last party, but none of it matters when Cristiano’s beaming at them.

“You’re all intruders!”

Marcelo’s busy flinging his arms around Cristiano when the latter yells, “And thieves!” and points to Isco and Dani, who are nibbling on some of the Portuguese’s secret stock of English digestives. Their cheeks are still stuffed full of cookie when they throw themselves into the throng of bodies that surrounds Cristiano. Iker claps a hand onto his shoulder, kisses both his cheeks and clears his throat before announcing,

“We couldn’t be more proud of you. You absolutely deserve it.”

“Aww!” Sergio gushes, bounds forward and drags them both into a spirited hug. Everyone else seems to just latch onto the nearest free teammate, until they’re a single mass of irrevocably bound limbs, Cristiano glowing in the center. It’s somehow even more beautiful than James imagined.

He’s humbled when Cristiano manages to extricate an arm and reach out for him, grin dazzlingly bright but gaze full of tenderness. He has to wriggle a little to get to him, but curled against Cristiano’s chest with Marcelo against his side and Fabio’s hand on his shoulder, James thinks of his grandmother, thinks how right she was about beautiful things coming in groups.

Eventually they break apart and Pepe leads the chorus demand for “Speech, speech!”

He glances down at the trophy before looking back around the room again.

“I always say the same thing but it’s always true. I couldn’t do any of this without you all on my team. All my awards, they’re yours too. Except for People’s Sexiest Athlete of the Year. That was just me.”

His smirk is so disgustingly smug that Fabio’s forced to launch a chip at his head.  

“Ay, _babaca_! Stop dirtying up my house. And just when I was about to say thank you all for everything, especially tonight.”

“Don’t thank me, brat. It was all James. Personally, I think this is too good for you.”

“Okay, well to everyone who isn’t Fabio,” Cristiano begins haughtily, then looks at James. His voice softens. “Thank you. Truly.”

James’ hands are tucked under his chin, head tilted slightly to the side. He exhales shakily, feels suddenly, incredibly lucky.

 

*

 

He’s torn between pride and embarrassment when he accidentally interrupts Sergio and Iker in the kitchen. They’re intimately intertwined, Iker pressing the defender up against the side of the fridge, mouths melded together, blocking James from the beer he came to get in the first place. Somehow, despite being together for nearly a decade, they kiss like teenagers on their first date.

He’s mid-swivel when Isco wanders in, calling for Sergio. Iker’s head pops up first and he detaches himself more quickly than Sergio, who looks momentarily dazed and leans bonelessly against the metal.

“Uh, I can,” James points over his shoulder to leave, but Iker waves a hand, swallows audibly.

Isco blinks between his captain and vice-captain before shrugging a shoulder, dragging a weak-kneed Sergio into the other room with demands of karaoke. Sergio turns before he disappears, flashes Iker a look that is equal parts sultry promise and affection.

James takes a sip of his beer to hide his smile, but Iker notices anyway.

“Oh please, like we haven’t caught you and Cris in the showers twice now, in far more compromising positions.”

Heat splashes across the back of his neck at a particular memory, how rough the tiles had been against his palms, how blissfully surrounded he had felt between them and the solid, muscular wall of Cristiano’s chest.

“We thought you'd all left!” He insists. “But that’s not why I’m grinning. It’s just...Sergio doesn’t look like himself when you’re not around.” He blurts it out without thinking, doesn’t know any other way to explain how the defender looks incomplete, less bold, less open without the portero.

“I’m just glad you’re here, Iker.”

The corner of Iker’s mouth crooks up.

“Yeah. I’m glad you did this for Cris, for all of us”

“Me too. Although I almost ruined it all oversleeping,” James mutters under his breath.

“How?” Iker wonders, confusion and skepticism coloring his voice.

“I have my own ritual, like you and Sergio kissing before games, or you touching the goalpost. But this morning, I overslept and didn’t have time and I feel like I’ve spent half the day waiting for something to go terribly wrong as a result,” James finishes with a huff.

“And did it?”

"Well, not really."

Iker chuckles.

“What?” James wants to know. 

The older man shrugs a shoulder casually.

“Rituals, these superstitious little traditions we have, they’re important. But not because they’re some guarantee of anything, but because they’re reminders. When I kiss Sergio, I know that he’ll be there at the end of the game, win or lose. When I touch the crossbar, I remember that I’m still the portero, the captain, for the best team in the world. Maybe they’re just our way of acknowledging the things we’ll still be grateful for, even if everything else goes terribly wrong.”

James thinks of his grandmother’s hands, and then his mother’s hands, how confident and steady they were. How much like them his own hands look. How he knew they would still make him arepas, still take care of him, still love him even if he failed.

“Maybe,” James says slowly, lets the idea warmly envelop him. “Yeah.”

“And the important things, they just happen to you. You don’t have to do anything but live,” Iker finishes, hands James a beer as they join the group.

 

*

 

The next morning, James carefully slides out from underneath Cristiano while the room is half-shadowed in early morning, nicks a pair of his boxers from the drawers. He doesn’t mind the slight coolness of the hardwood floors underneath his feet as he gathers the ingredients, the way the room seems to hold its breath until he switches the music on. He hums along to it as he stirs the mixture, arches his back to rid himself of some of the soreness from the night before. It’s flashes unbidden into his mind, the memory of Cristiano trailing the end of his bowtie down the small of James’ back, his mouth tumbling after. His hands are covered in flour, flattening a ball of dough between his palms when Cristiano kisses at the highest rung of his spine, flicks a finger inside the waistband of his boxers and lets it snap.

“Shameless. You already have an entire drawer full of boxers you’ve stolen from me,” Cristiano accuses but continues to bestow kisses up his neck. His hands slide up and down James’ sides in even, rhythmic strokes.

“They’re comfy,” he states. _And they’re yours_ , he thinks, laying the uncooked circle onto the sheet tray.

“You’re cold.” Cristiano’s voice is barely loud enough to rustle the ends of James’ hair as he nuzzles at the line of his shoulder.

“You’re distracting,” James retorts when one of Cristiano’s hands wanders onto his stomach, traces circles around his bellybutton.

“I’m just trying to help,” he breathes, but it’s husky and inviting. James is very nearly tempted. He dips a finger into the bowl and smears it across Cristiano’s cheek instead.

Before he can even pretend to look sheepish, Cristiano’s on him, hoisting him up with one arm around his waist and the other snatching the offending wrist. James kicks out but the Portuguese shimmies out of the way just in time, manages to deposit him onto the counter top with minimal injury.

“This is what I get for my troubles,” he admonishes, slips between James legs before taking the tip of the finger coated with the mixture into his mouth. He licks slowly, just to watch the Colombiano squirm a little bit. He slides it out of his mouth with a resounding pop and James’ blush spreads over his neck, the top of his chest. The younger man leans in and swipes his tongue over the little bit of cornmeal staining his face with a soft laugh, leaves his mouth there to brush gentle kisses across his cheek.

“Thank you,” Cristiano sighs softly against his skin, foreheads touching. “For yesterday.” He lifts his head.

“For being here today,” he adds, reverently touches his mouth to the center of his forehead.

Suddenly, it clicks into place for him, why Cristiano felt the need to ask him to stay even though it was the norm for them. Maybe James isn't the only one who needs the reassurance of constants in the face of his fears. Maybe he’s not the only one who has a lot to be grateful for.

He cradles Cristiano’s face in his hands before rubbing his lips tenderly over his.

“It’s tradition.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!
> 
> this fic, much like my daily existential crisis, was inspired by the way James [gazes longingly](http://james-rodriguez.tumblr.com/post/107922946719/x) at Cristiano, who somehow manages to look equally [besotted](http://concretar.tumblr.com/post/108437613554).
> 
> comments are little nuggets of luck :)


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